


4:02 AM

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Baby boy is fucked up, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insomnia, Makoto naegi centric, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Survivor Guilt, from like two days ago, vent - Freeform, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-08 09:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14102763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: The time blinked on his phone, burning into his eyes as his body ached for sleep. But he couldn't. He justcouldn't.





	4:02 AM

_4:02 AM._

The time blinked on his phone, burning into his eyes as his body ached for sleep. But he couldn't. He just _couldn't_.

He wasn't sure why, but he knew he couldn't. There was something like dread in his stomach, a heavy feeling, oppressive. His chest was filled with water, and his feelings were oil. Slimy, icky things, never mixing quite well. Heavy.

He didn't know why he felt this. He didn't know why he bothered wondering why, anymore. It's been like this for a while, longer than it should have been. Sleepless nights, with nothing to blame than his own self.

Maybe it was his form of destruction, not sleeping. Maybe it was just addicted to making sure he failed.

Or maybe he was scared of what would greet him when his eye lids closed.

But the silence unnerved him. It reminded him of fret filled nights, pasing mornings. Sound proof rooms. The knawing thought in the back of his mind, wondering when the next body would drop.

Wondering when another friend would die.

(When another one would _kill_.)

In place of the silence, there was the loud, _loud_ noise of his brain, trying to hard to fill it, fill it up. He couldn't deal with silences, but the noise, the _**noise**_. It hurt, it hurt and hurt and _hurt_ , until he clutched his head and cried, cried, shut up shut up _shut up!_

But he was only yelling at phantom thoughts, not quite finished, not quite thought. Stupid, putrid little things, floating around in his mind like muck in a lake, making the water much to murky; a fog. He wanted to scream.

But he couldnt, because that would worry people, wouldn't it? And he didn't want to tell them, didn't want to take this dark, black, _slimy_  thing from his soul and expose it to them. He didn't even want to touch it. He didn't even want it to _exist_.

Hatred wasn't something he felt often, but he really, truly hated the sensation.

(Hated _himself_.)

Frustration bubbled in, as if years of shaking a can too much left the pressure building, until it couldn't contain it. Until the fizzling sound of anger, overly sweet and carbonated, overflowed, exploded. He couldn't keep it, couldn't feel right.

It was banging on his chest to be released, the desire to scream and kick and punch and yell when things didn't go his way. It felt as if he had touched something covered in a thin layer of sand, gritty, the kind of feeling that made his teeth ache. 

And he needed to do something, to release this pent up energy, this sheer destructive force. 

He bite his hand. Hard.

It hurt. The skin where he had bitten was much to tthin, no muscles to buffer it. It felt like it would stretch and stretch and snap under the force, not unlike rubber. He moved lower to his arms without even thinking.

The pressure was grounding. The ache, only kicking in after his teeth unclamped. But it was the kind of pain that felt like a pillar, something to orientate himself with, even if it was crushing him, opposed to the world being yanked out from under him, a free fall.

It wasn't enough. There was no longer that cooled up spring in his chest, but eye lids where dropping. A vague panic shot through him, dulled by the grasps of deaths hand, not an embrace, only temporary. Only temporary, unlike his friends, the unlucky ones who would never open their eyes again, outside of his dreams.

He wished they didn't open in those, either, though, because he really couldn't stand their accusing glares, or pleding glances. Each one asking the same thing.

_("Why didn't you save me?")_

It was the masterminds fault. That's what he told himself, and he believed it, too. Anyone can do horrible things, if placed in extreme situations, if provided the right motive. _Anyone_. He knew that, even if he would proclaim he'd never kill. Or, maybe because he knew that, he knew he wouldn't kill. Not in that situation—everything was just another trick from the mastermind, another motive to kill. And if he did kill, he'd be losing against them, their true opponent. The mastermind. He knew from the start that his classmates weren't his enemy, not really.

Because, they really were his friends. 

And they were just kids, frightened, scared kids.

_But their actions were still their own._

Makoto shook his head. No, no. He couldn't blame them, not really, for their actions. Even if they were the ones who swung the hammer, or grabbed the knife, they were still kids like him. It doesn't mean their actions weren't their own, and that they shouldn't be agknowlage as such, but their was more to it than that. She was manipulating them, she was guiding their actions. 

_Isnt it so much easier to just blame her? To just blame one person?_

He didn't blame them. He didn't want to blame them. They were his _friends_ , and he _loved_ _them_. They might have done bad things, but he liked to believe they were good people. That they were just falling prey to her pupeteering. 

_To just see things as black and white?_

He didn't want her to die. 

Makoto knew, knew with all his being that he didn't want junko to die. Not in that moment, and not now. In retrospect, there was no other way it could have ended, though, with the whole world wanting her head. But still, he had wanted to save her. 

Ha. Save. Like he could save anyone. 

Like he could ever, when so many corpses were already hanging over him.

_Isn't so much easier?_

His friends, all dead. He could have saved them. He _**knows**_ he could have. Somewhere out there, maybe he did, in another world, in a _what if..._

But this wasn't a what if. This was frustratingly real, and no hypothetical could change that. He failed them: he couldn't stop them from turning on each other.

_To be the **fucking coward** you are?_

And he was hope? 

As if. 

It was _his fault._

He was just a sad, pathetic little boy. Traumatized and scared, so naive and trusting and fucking stupid, a fucking idiot. He was just someone to use and take advantage of.

And the worse thing was he would never complain. 

(Shut up shut up shut up)

Even when the voices in his head mixed with his own narration, swirling in a foggy daze, until he couldn't tell the origins of his thoughts. Even when _intrusive_ just meant a normal Sunday night. Even when bitterness swell in his chest and he wanted to scream and shout and tell everyone, _everyone_ , to just _shut the fuck up._

 

He didn't say anything.

(so he was allowed to be, at least a little selfish, wasn't he?)

He didn't want to sleep.

 

...

 

_But he was so, so tired._


End file.
